“So you’re grateful. This was all about gratitude.”

  Katya’s expression softened. “Are you afraid I won’t want you once you’ve bathed?”

  “You won’t need me once you’ve been returned to human form.”

  The she-cat’s glance hardened. “Or I can stay like this. Your pet.”

  Mallory sighed. “Even though I’d never tire of this, I’d be horribly selfish if I didn’t let you go.”

  Katya blinked and glanced away. “I’ll still need somewhere to stay. Someone I trust.”

  “I have room. A bed.”

  One feline brow arched. “Yes, you do, although we have yet to use it.”

  Feeling more hopeful that this strange exotic creature wouldn’t slip away, Mallory nodded. “So how about a bath first, then dinner.”

  Katya wrinkled her nose. “Cats don’t bathe. We groom.”

  The next day, Mallory pulled the car close to the doorway for Katya, dressed in a long trench coat to hide her tail and a straw hat to hide her cat’s ears, to run quickly to the door and jump in.

  The trip to the old crones’ house didn’t take long. The whole time Mallory thought about things she wanted to say to Katya, but didn’t have the courage.

  For her part, Katya remained mute, watching the changing scenery through the passenger window.

  She’d never thought to ask how long she’d been under the crones’ spell.

  “Fifteen years I’ve been away.” When she saw Mallory’s startled expression, she blinked. “You asked.”

  “Actually, I didn’t.”

  They turned into the long driveway. The tables were gone.

  At Katya’s sharp inhalation, Mallory patted her knee. “See? You haven’t changed back. It doesn’t have a thing to do with this place.”

  “How’d you…?” She shook her head. “Maybe we do read each other’s minds.”

  They exited the car, Katya tossing the hat onto the seat and shaking out her hair.

  The wind caught it and Mallory thought she looked like a Brazilian cover model dressed for Carnival.

  They knocked but no one answered. They tried the latch, and it depressed. The door swung open.

  A quiver of unease shook Mallory. “Maybe we should wait. The last time you went snooping, they turned you into Garfield.”

  “No, I think we’re okay.” Katya walked through the foyer and down a darkened hallway that opened into a large kitchen with an equally large cauldron bubbling on the gas stove.

  “Someone has to be here,” Mallory whispered. “We should leave while we can.”

  Katya scanned the kitchen, and then froze.

  Mallory followed her gaze. A large leather-bound book sat on a counter. “Baby, that’s a real bad idea.”

  “The little one is cautious while you are bold.”

  The creaky voice behind her startled Mallory so badly she jumped and shrieked.

  Agnes’s sharp features peered at Mallory. “I thought you’d be the one; the others weren’t sure. But look what we have…” Her gaze sliced toward Katya. “You still wear your pride.”

  Katya’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you mean, but you know why I’m here.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to keep a remnant or two of your punishment to keep you humble?”

  Katya’s chin jutted. Mallory nearly asked for the tail. Katya’s gaze cut her way, and a slight smile curved one corner of her mouth.

  The old woman clapped her hands delightedly. “You hear one another! Marvelous! What fun you shall have.”

  Mallory reached for Katya’s hand and took a step toward the door, intending to make a run for it.

  “Where are the other two?” Katya asked softly.

  “There are always only three. Rosemary and Margery are at rest. When my niece, Melisande, arrives, so too shall I be.”

  Katya’s hand tightened around hers, and she pulled her against her side, anchoring her there.

  And even though she knew she ought to tear out of the embrace and try to escape some horrible fate, she didn’t much care what happened, not with Katya’s arm around her. “So are you going to make us into a matching pair of Beanie Babies?”

  Agnes chuckled. “No, but I should leave you two alone. You have a lot to talk about.”

  Mallory turned to Katya, and then blanched. Katya was her human self again. Still as shapely, but with a longer nose and human ears and skin as smooth as alabaster.

  “That’s a rather trite description.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Didn’t you hear her? There are always three.”

  “And that means something to you, but three sounds crowded, and she’s not coming to my bed.” Mallory shuddered.

  Katya laughed and the sound was like bells ringing. Gone was the purr, the raspy growl. “If you miss your Miss Kitty so much, you can always learn the spell to change me. I’ll even stand still while you blow the powder at me.”

  “Me, cast a spell?”

  “You really are slow.” Katya shrugged off the trench coat and opened her arms. “Darling apprentice, we’re home.”

  A week later, a car door slammed. Katya drew off her apron. Mallory brushed off flecks of crushed lavender from her fingers. Agnes had been teaching them to cast a love spell. The ingredients had been crushed in the old mortar and then burned like incense in a silver bowl. “Do you think it’s her?” Mallory asked.

  She glanced around, saw Agnes walking down the dark hallway toward the front door. The old woman pushed open the screen door, waved to whoever had just arrived, then disappeared in a shimmer of golden light.

  Mallory gasped.

  Katya gave her a smile. “It’s going to be all right.” She grasped Mallory’s hand and together they stepped out onto the porch to welcome Melisande.

  BELLING THE CAT

  J.L. Merrow

  You’re doing it again, Kat,” Belle said, in that oh-bloody-hell-here-we-go-again tone of voice that these days just screams Belle to me.

  Don’t get me wrong, she’s a really good mate, Belle is. Always ready to drop work and have a natter, and she makes sure she keeps a tin of tuna in the cupboard, which is a much more important quality in a friend than most people think, I’ve always found. We work together, always have—well, not together, together, but for the same firm of accountants. She’s in audit; I’m in tax, which is handily on her way down to the ladies’. That’s where we were just then. Well, if smokers can have a ten-minute fag break in the morning and again in the afternoon, I don’t see why the rest of us can’t have a ten-minute pee-and-a-chat break every now and then, do you?

  I twisted around from where I’d been sitting on the counter, swinging my legs, to have a look in the mirror. Yep, couldn’t deny it. I mouthed a couple of curses at my reflection and set to with the breathing exercises.

  “You’re going to have to do something about that, Kat. What if it happens at your desk? Or worse, in a meeting?”

  “Aaannnnnndd out, two, three,” I said aloud. You can’t actually do breathing exercises while speaking, but I was trying to make a point. “You know, given that this seems to be stress-related, I don’t think coming up with worst-case scenarios is really helping, do you?”

  “You think that’s a worst-case scenario? What if it happens in the middle of the wedding?” Belle asked, hands on her hips giving her even more of an hourglass figure. “There we are, walking up the aisle behind Amie, her all radiant in that bloody meringue dress we couldn’t talk her out of buying, and suddenly—”

  “Not helping, okay?” I said brightly. “Look, I’ll be fine. I just need to relax, that’s all. Center myself. Find my ‘Calm Place.’”

  Fat chance of that, I admitted to myself after she’d gone back to her desk, leaving me alone in the ladies’ trying to visualize a pile of warm, fluffy towels in my mum’s walk-in airing cupboard. The problem with Belle was, she was the problem.

  Ever since I’d seen her in the slinky satin dress Amie had, against all the odds, chosen for us as her bridesmaids, well, I hadn’t been able to get the picture out of my head. And it was totally inappropriate, because Belle and I had been mates for ages. Ever since we both started working at Cuthbert & Co. on the same day, September before last. Fresh out of college we were, both of us—totally unprepared for the world of work.

  Well, I was, anyhow. Belle’s one of those people who always seems prepared for anything, and she’s so nice with it you can’t help liking her, even so.

  I’d noticed her straight off—hard not to, as she’s almost six foot tall with the sort of looks that have strangers coming up to her in the street and asking if she’s a model and if not, why not. Poor sods. They don’t know what’s hit them when she goes off on one of her tirades about objectification of women and propping up an archaic, misogynistic fashion industry. We hadn’t really spoken much, but then on my second day I was sent off to do some photocopying (three hundred pages, double sided, and twenty-seven copies) and it all went pear-shaped really quickly, because I didn’t realize the machine couldn’t handle all that at once.

  Belle rescued me. She slipped into the little photocopying room and dug me out of the avalanche of paper that had buried me alive, as if Swiss mountain rescue had started employing sleek black panthers instead of Saint Bernards. She even changed the toner when it ran out halfway. “I did work experience in my mum’s office over the summer,” she explained.

  We ended up going out for a drink after work, and I told her I was a dyke, but not to worry, she wasn’t my type—because she wasn’t, at least not as far as I knew back then—and she just laughed and said she reckoned she could fight off any unwanted advances.

  And when I developed my little problem, she was right there to support me, and spent hours on the internet Googling for a cure. Which she didn’t find, obviously, but then she just started helping me to deal with it.

  Which not a lot of mates would do. I mean, it’s not something straightforward like a case of thrush.

  So I did my best to be glad for her when she had boyfriends, which never seemed to be that often, actually. I think a lot of blokes have a problem with a girl who’s taller than them. And even though I had a few dreams about curling up in her lap while she stroked me and stroked me, I never said a word.

  But then we had the fittings for the dresses, and, well—like I said—I just couldn’t get the picture out of my head.

  Amie’s wedding day dawned bright and warm, and I had to rouse myself from the sunny spot on the armchair in the front room to get over there on time. We were all changing together at her house, and I really should have known. I mean, it started out all right. Amie was all excited, even before she cracked open a bottle of bubbly to get us in the mood. Trouble was, once we started getting our kit off to change, what with the alcohol and all, I was more than in the mood. And then there was Belle in her lacy stockings and push-up basque—I didn’t need her startled look to know I needed to go and compose myself.

  So I ran into the box bedroom in my boring cotton underwear and I tried to think calming, and unsexy, and above all, human thoughts.

  But then the door opened, and Belle walked in. “Don’t look at me!” I wailed, because who wants the girl of their dreams to see them all hairy? Not to mention the...other thing. Even sensible cotton underwear can only hide so much. But she just kept coming, and then I felt her stroke my hair, again and again, and it was so soothing I just forgot myself and leaned into her.

  “Oh, Kat,” Belle said softly, cuddling me. “I wish...” She scratched my chin, and I nuzzled into her touch.

  “Wish what?” I wanted to say, but it came out as, “Miaow?”

  Belle seemed to understand anyhow. “I wish I was your type,” she said, and I was so shocked I changed back into human in her arms without even trying.

  “Really?” I squeaked. “It doesn’t bother you—all the going furry and, um,” and here I blushed, “growing a tail?”

  Belle blushed too, but then she kissed me. “You know I’ve always loved you as a cat. And it really is a beautiful tail.” Her hand slid around to my bottom, and I realized—because she was stroking it—that the big, long, furry unmentionable thing was still there, poking out the leg of my knickers.

  I’d always wondered why cats go all squirmy when you stroke their tails. I didn’t have to wonder anymore.

  My hand crept up to her breast all on its own, and I checked quickly to make sure there weren’t any claws. Belle was all lace and satin and little bows, like a really posh birthday present, and I couldn’t wait to unwrap her properly, but Amie would be banging on the door any minute demanding to know where her bridesmaids were. So I slid Belle’s panties down over her suspenders, smoothed her dark little curls, and lapped her up like a saucer of cream, and it didn’t take a moment before she shuddered and gasped.

  Then she pulled me up, and her lips were on my lips, her soft tongue tasting mine. “I’m not sure you’ve washed properly today,” she said, and as I shivered she licked her way all down my throat. “I think you missed a bit just here.” Her hot breath tickled my skin as she licked a slow track around my nipple. “I think this bit’s filthy.” Belle’s tongue was like silk sweeping over my nipple again and again, and I mewled as her hand crept into my knickers.

  “Oh!” I said, and “Oh!” again, watching that little pink tongue make promises Belle’s fingers more than fulfilled. “Don’t stop!”

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’m going to get you all sparkling clean.” Her fingers stayed where they were while her tongue moved over to my other breast, laving it first softly, and then harder. The heady scent of her, all shampoo and body lotion and the sweet musk that was my Belle, rose up to tickle my nostrils.

  Warmth spread through me, and when her other hand grabbed my tail and stroked it from root to tip, I exploded with heat and joy. “Oh!” I breathed, as stars shone around me, winking cheekily.

  And then we kissed again, quick and wet and sweet, and we tidied ourselves up and checked that my tail had finally gone before we ran out, giggling.

  All right. Maybe one of us was purring.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ANGELA CAPERTON writes eclectic erotica that challenges genre conventions. Look for her stories published with Black Lace and eBury Publishing, Cleis, Circlet, Coming Together, Drollerie, eXtasy Books, Renaissance, and in the indie magazine Out of the Gutter.

  CHRISTINE D’ABO loves writing in the worlds of sci-fi, BDSM, and romance. By combining the elements of those genres, Christine creates the types of stories she loves to read. Christine is currently published with Ellora’s Cave, Samhain Publishing, Carina Press, Berkley Heat, and Cleis Press.

  KATE DOUGLAS, lead author of Kensington Publishing’s Aphrodisia erotic romance imprint, which is home to her best-selling Wolf Tales series and upcoming Dream Catchers and Spirit Wild series, lives in the beautiful mountains of Lake County, California with her husband of forty years.

  ADELE DUBOIS is an award-winning, multipublished erotic romance author and former newspaper and magazine columnist, features writer, and foreign correspondent. When not on the beach, she and her family enjoy their rural eastern Pennsylvania home, where she is currently working on her next novel.

  SACCHI GREEN writes in western Massachusetts. Her stories have appeared in a hip-high stack of publications with erotically inspirational covers, and she’s also edited or co-edited seven volumes of erotica, including Girl Crazy, Lesbian Cowboys (winner of the 2010 Lambda Literary Award for lesbian erotica), Lesbian Lust, and Lesbian Cops.

  TAHIRA IQBAL is a UK-based writer who currently works in the film and TV industry, but writing is and will always be her first love. You can find her work, an erotic vampire short story “The Queen,” in the Red Velvet and Absinthe anthology published by Cleis Press.

  MYLA JACKSON pens wildly sexy adventures of all genres including historical westerns, medieval tales, romantic suspense, contemporary romance, and paranormals with beasties of all shapes and sizes. When not wrangling words from her computer with the help of her canine muses, she’s snow skiing, boating, or riding her ATV.

  MICHAEL M. JONES is a writer, editor, and book reviewer, which often leads to interesting conversations at family get-togethers. His stories have appeared in Rumpled Silk Sheets, Like A Queen, Like A God’s Kiss, Masked Pleasures, and more. He is the editor of the forthcoming Like A Cunning Plan: Erotic Trickster Tales.

  CHRIS KOUJU, a Malaysian writer, usually pens fantasy, science fiction, and an obscene amount of slashfic. Although lesbian erotica is not something she typically writes, she will lay hands on anything. Armed with a master’s in creative writing, she is determined to finish her first novel in gorgeous, chilly Scotland.

  ANNA MEADOWS is a part-time executive assistant, part-time Sapphic housewife. Her work appears in six Cleis Press anthologies, including Girls Who Bite. She lives and writes in northern California.

  J.L. MERROW is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She writes across genres, with a preference for contemporary gay romance and the paranormal, and is frequently accused of humor.

  VICTORIA OLDHAM is an editor of lesbian fiction and has published erotica in Girls Who Bite, Where the Girls Are, Women in Uniform, Skulls and Crossbones, and Blue Collar Lesbians. She lives in England with her partner and enjoys tromping through ruins.

  GISELLE RENARDE is a queer Canadian, avid volunteer, contributor to more than fifty short story anthologies, and author of dozens of electronic and print books, including Anonymous, Ondine, and My Mistress’ Thighs. Ms. Renarde lives across from a park with two bilingual cats who sleep on her head.